


Awkward Moments, Sexy Vampires, and a Halloween First Kiss

by 221b_careful_what_you_wish_for



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Awkward Tension, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, Halloween, Hand Jobs, Kissing, Locked In, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Mutual Pining, Snogging, Trapped In A Closet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2021-01-02 03:55:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21155210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for/pseuds/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for
Summary: John and Sherlock are helping Molly decorate for a Halloween party, but underneath their banter they‘re both suffering from Desperately Unspoken Mutual Pining. An embarrassing comment, locked storage room, and erotic vampire tale ease the skeletons out of the closet.





	Awkward Moments, Sexy Vampires, and a Halloween First Kiss

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Čeština available: [O trapných chvilkách, sexy upírech a prvním polibku](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21596242) by [miamam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/miamam/pseuds/miamam)

> Written for A Halloween 13 Johnlock and Mystrade Advent Calendar and inspired by a prompt from Mottlemoth’s Autumn Prompts Generator. My excellent prompt was:
> 
> The story takes place while decorating for Halloween.  
You must mention marshmallows,  
use the word “soft,”  
and include this line of dialogue:  
“I don’t bite.”

John climbs the creaky ladder and carefully hangs a paper bat from the ceiling. He gives it a little push to set it swinging, satisfied that it will hold. He glances down at Sherlock, watching him rummage through a cardboard box with his shirt sleeves rolled up. It’s the purple shirt that verges on being obscenely tight, accentuating every muscle and curve of his back and chest.

John gazes down, mesmerized by straining fabric and dark curls and gorgeous hands and soft nape. He often steals moments like these, attracted, conflicted, unsure about what he should do or about what Sherlock feels or doesn’t feel.

He doesn’t know how to process these secret desires, apart from sometimes waking up with a raging boner that he swiftly dispatches with a fistful of fantasies about pale skin, stormy blue eyes, long fingers, and perfect lips wrapped around his —

John shakes himself, tearing his attention away from Sherlock. He adjusts the bat’s outstretched wings, then clears his throat, trying to redirect his runaway thoughts by needling Sherlock. “I really thought you’d be complaining more,” he says. “You must secretly enjoy this.”

Sherlock scoffs, pulling a tangle of Halloween decorations from the box. “You tricked me into coming here.”

“I didn’t trick you,” John protests, hanging another bat.

“Oh, really? Let me read you your text,” Sherlock takes out his phone with a flourish and swipes to the message. “‘At St. Bart’s with Molly — come quickly. Your help is urgently needed.’”

“Well, your help is needed to get everything ready in time.”

“I was hoping for a triple poisoning,” Sherlock mutters, stuffing his phone into his jacket slung over a chair, “not decorating for a pathetic office party.”

“Oh, those look perfect there.” Molly walks by holding a tray of cupcakes and smiles brightly at John, then less certainly at Sherlock. “Thanks for helping out. It’s all sort of last minute, but I thought a little party would be fun for everyone who has to work the night shift on Halloween.”

“I’m sure the hospital administrators would be thrilled to know that food and alcohol are being served in the morgue.”

“Oh, well,” Molly stammers. “It’s just for some of the staff—”

“It’s fine,” John reassures Molly, shooting Sherlock a stern glance. “It’s good for morale. Besides, none of the patients down here are going to complain, right?”

Molly’s smile flickers back and she hurries away to set up the refreshments.

“Don’t be a dick,” John warns Sherlock, moving the ladder to hang a string of orange lights.

“I’m merely pointing out the flagrant disregard of hospital policy.”

“Says the man who keeps body parts in the fridge. Remind me where those come from again?” John asks, climbing back up several rungs.

Sherlock smirks and passes John a second string of lights. As he stretches his arm upward, he can’t help but notice that John’s crotch is now at eye level. John’s jeans snug tight as he reaches up to secure the lights, the denim outlining an impressive bulge. Sherlock tries not to look, but he can’t shift his gaze, his mind fixating on the words _well-endowed._

It’s not the first time he’s studied John. Oh, he’s mapped every detail from his head to his toes, cataloging John’s fine hands and shapely ears and long lashes and strong thighs, and, yes, that intimate region that is now hovering mere inches from his face.

Sherlock automatically calculates information about John’s cock — heft, length, girth — he can practically feel the heavy heat in his hand… It shocks him sometimes, the visceral reaction John causes to his brain and body.

Sherlock had been quite content living without romantic or sexual entanglements (so messy and futile) — until the day John limped into the lab. John stirs up in him some sort of chemical reaction, a bubbling concoction of want and need, a heady, complex cocktail of filthy lust and pure affinity. It’s most unfortunate that John will never think of him in the same way.

Sherlock finally glances away, his cheeks warm, trying to think of something neutral to say. “I… I suppose the morgue is the perfect setting for the evening’s theme.”

“Can’t really think of a spookier place, can you?”

“I think it’s peaceful down here.”

“Yeah, the dead tend to be a quiet lot.”

“And more interesting than most living people.”

John snorts and climbs back down the ladder. “So you won’t be staying for a drink?”

“God, no. I detest mingling.” Sherlock infuses the final word with disgust.

John picks up a plastic severed hand from the box and studies it. “I don’t know… it could be fun.”

Sherlock raises a skeptical eyebrow.

“What else were you planning to do tonight?” John asks, wedging the hand between two chemical bottles on a shelf. “Stay in and read a book?”

“Maybe.”

“On Halloween?” John stares at him incredulously, then shakes his head. “Oh my God, you’re turning into Mycroft.”

Sherlock gasps, visibly offended, and John relents.

“Okay, sorry, that was uncalled for. But of all the holidays, I would have thought that Halloween appealed to you.”

“Why?”

“Oh, I don’t know… it’s dark, macabre, mysterious... a bit dramatic.”

“And you think I find those things appealing?”

This time John raises an eyebrow. “You’re the one always swanning around in that long coat with the collar turned up, flashing your cheekbones like —” he gestures, searching for the right image, “like some sort of sexy vampire.”

John’s face burns the moment the words leave his mouth, and he quickly pretends to straighten some autopsy instruments left on the worktop.

Sherlock blinks at John, then crinkles his nose in confusion.

“Just forget I said that,” John says gruffly. “Stupid comparison. I’ll see if Molly needs help.”

_Oh shit, crap, crap, crap,_ John hisses to himself, stumbling away from Sherlock. _Why did I say that? Jesus._

Sherlock watches John walk away, his brain still processing his comment. _Sexy vampire? Is that a compliment, or sarcasm? Are vampires generally considered attractive, or is it an oxymoron?_

It’s at times like this that Sherlock wishes he paid attention to popular culture or watched the occasional Hollywood film. He gnaws at the phrase, wondering why it slipped from John’s psyche. Could John possibly think that _he_ was — _sexy?_

Sherlock quietly panics at the thought. He never seriously considered that John might reciprocate his interest. What should he do? Attempt to flirt to let John know his own feelings of attraction? Oh God…

Perhaps best to ignore it and just go home. John is busy talking to Molly, so he could slip away without any more awkwardness. Sherlock’s eyes rove to the door, then are caught by the appealing arrangement of refreshments set on a table. He could use a little something to eat…

He sidles up to the food and inspects the cupcakes, crisps, marshmallow ghosts, chocolate eyeballs, and other salty and sugary treats. He sneaks several chocolates and a ginger biscuit, then sniffs at a bowl of ominous-looking red punch, detecting vodka and tequila. An unfortunate combination.

John and Molly are now draping fake spider webs around the room, chatting about some bit of hospital gossip. He turns to leave.

“There!” Molly exclaims with satisfaction, looking around at the decorated morgue. “I think it’s about done. But maybe just one more thing.”

Sherlock drifts stealthily toward the door, hoping Molly doesn’t see him.

“Oh, Sherlock,” Molly calls out, “before you go, could you do me one more favor?”

Sherlock grimaces, then does his best impersonation of polite interest.

“Could you find that old skeleton that Mike uses in his anatomy class and bring it down here? I think it’s in the storage closet next to the lab upstairs.”

Sherlock smiles tightly. “Delighted to.”

“Actually,” Molly continues thoughtfully, “there should be two skeletons up there. John, would you mind bringing down the other one?”

“Um, sure.” John glances at Sherlock, then looks away, still embarrassed. He reluctantly takes the key ring that Molly hands to him, then walks to the double doors, cursing his bad luck. The last thing he wants to do is face Sherlock after his stupid remark. He pushes through the doors and Sherlock slowly follows.

“Thanks!” Molly chirps after them.

They walk to the elevator without speaking and John punches the up button. There’s more silence until the elevator doors rumble open and they step inside. John rubs the back of his neck, his eyes on the floor, and Sherlock clasps his hands behind his back, rocking once on his heels, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. The elevator groans as it ascends. The doors finally slide open again.

John jingles the keys nervously as they make their way down the long, dim hallway, their footsteps echoing off the white walls. No one is around, the day shift over. John checks the number on the key again, then stops in front of a door marked with a brown placket: Storage.

John inserts the key into the lock. It’s a bit tricky to open, the mechanism worn or rusty. He gives it a few rattles and twists, the latch scraping free after a minor struggle.

Sherlock flips on the light switch, causing one weary bulb to cast a meager, yellowish glow in the oversized closet. There are a few cast-off file cabinets and printers, shelves lined with dusty boxes, an outdated microscope draped in opaque plastic, abandoned flasks and beakers, and two human skeletons hanging from wooden stands mounted on wheels. It’s possibly the most depressing room John has ever seen.

“Well,” John says for lack of anything clever to say. “Here they are.”

Sherlock steps forward, intrigued by the burnished patina of the bones. “They’re quite old,” he remarks.

“Yeah, over a hundred years old, I’d say. You don’t often see real ones anymore. Must have willed their bodies to the hospital for science.”

“Or they were dug up by grave robbers,” Sherlock adds, peering at one of the skulls. “Sold for a bit of drinking money.”

John pulls a face. “That’s a cheerful thought.”

Sherlock circles the skeletons, one about his own height, the other noticeably shorter. “One male, one female?”

John tilts his head. “Mm, no. Both male. Close to the same age, I’d say.”

“Hmm.” For some reason this surprises Sherlock. “Interesting.”

John watches Sherlock, vaguely amused by his fascination with the bones. He hopes he’s forgotten the asinine vampire comment. “Well… we should be getting these downstairs for the party.”

“Right.”

John takes hold of the support beam of the shorter specimen and rolls it toward the door. He grasps the door handle, but it doesn’t budge. He rattles the handle again, but it refuses to open. “Shit. It’s jammed.”

“Let me try.” Sherlock strides over and wrenches the handle uselessly. “This is absurd.”

“Call Molly.”

“My phone’s in my jacket. I left it in the morgue. Where’s your phone?”

“In my jacket in the morgue.”

They stare at each other, realizing they’re trapped, then John pounds his fist on the door. “Oi! Anybody out there? Hey!”

“It’s no use,” Sherlock sighs. “No one’s around at this hour.”

“How do you know?”

“I sometimes use the lab next door. Quiet as a tomb after 6. Conducive to thinking.”

“Well, unless you can think us out of here, that’s not helpful.”

Sherlock grunts and seats himself on the floor, his back against a cabinet, legs outstretched.

“You’re sitting down?” John’s voice goes up in pitch. “Oh, that’s just great.” He rattles the handle again. “Can’t you pick the lock or something?”

Sherlock snorts. “Not from the inside.”

The light bulb flickers ominously, then dims, glowing at half its original strength.

“Oh, perfect,” John snaps sarcastically, dismayed at the failing light. His luck really couldn’t get any worse.

“Calm down. Molly will soon realize we’re gone and will come looking for us,” Sherlock reasons. He watches John mutter and pace in front of the door. “Are you claustrophobic?”

“No,” John grits out. “I just don’t want to be trapped in a musty old storage room all night with two skeletons and a light bulb that’s about to burn out.”

Sherlock smiles slightly. “It is Halloween, after all. Isn’t this the type of thing that happens in all those horror movies?”

John gives up and slumps to the floor next to Sherlock. “They never end well, you know. If this were a movie, we’d be hacked to bits by the killer within the first 30 minutes.”

Sherlock waves his hand dismissively. “Dull. Where’s the drama in that?”

“There’s not really meant to be drama, is there? Just lots of suspense and scary bits.”

“Hm, I prefer the real drama happening out there, in the city.”

“You never know. You might like some of the old horror classics.”

“Oh, dear lord,” Sherlock groans, “I’m not wasting my time with ghosts and zombies and vampires.”

He feels John tense at the mention of the V word, threatening to ruin their easy rapport. Sherlock decides to avoid the subject.

And yet… he realizes it’s a perfect opportunity to pick John’s brain about that comment. He tries to sound nonchalant. “What is it about vampires that people find so… sexy?”

John swallows, caught off guard, and struggles to remember what he knows about vampires. “Well, they’re creatures of the night, pale and elegant. They’re immortal, yet vulnerable to sunlight and wooden stakes through the heart.”

“Isn’t there something about garlic?”

“They don’t like that either.”

“Ah. What else?”

“They’re mysterious, silently appearing from the shadows, a billowy black cloak draped around their shoulders. Some stories say they can turn into bats and fly.”

“That could be useful.”

“I suppose so.” John starts to warm to the subject, pleased by Sherlock’s interest and good humor. “They're usually depicted as suave and, uh, quite good looking.”

Sherlock glances at John, the low light casting deep shadows over their faces. “So they can more easily seduce their prey.”

John meets his eyes. “Yeah. Exactly.”

John is a bit amazed — Sherlock usually acts as if he’s completely ignorant about matters of attraction. Maybe that’s all just a facade, part of the cold, detached persona he’s constructed to keep the public at bay. John knows that’s not the real Sherlock; the man he knows is warm, funny, sometimes moody and petulant and annoying, but all very human. Maybe even one with wants and desires of his own...

“Right, so,” emboldened, John continues, the storyteller in him taking over. “Vampires lure their victims in with hypnotic charm, drawing their prey closer, their power irresistible as they flatter and seduce. They maneuver their victims to a private place where they won’t be disturbed, dripping honeyed words, brushing their fingertips down a tender neck...”

John falters, distracted by Sherlock’s eyes, which seem to have changed colors in the semi-darkness to a silvery grey, his pupils wide. The way Sherlock is intently focused on him sends a thrill down John’s spine. He licks his lips, unconsciously leaning closer.

“Soon they're locked in an intimate embrace, and it starts so sensually, lips trailing down an exposed throat, lingering over a beating pulse…”

Sherlock’s heartbeat quickens, enthralled.

“The victim is breathless, entranced, drowning under the hands and mouth of this magnificent, handsome creature. And then she gasps — is it pleasure? Or pain?”

Sherlock shifts closer, hanging on to John’s every word.

“The vampire tightens his grip, sharp fangs penetrating delicate skin, the first taste of sweet blood a revelation, a succulent nectar, an intoxicating drug. He sinks his teeth in deeper, and she cries out. The victim’s struggles barely register, the vampire lost in a frenzy of feeding, sucking out the rich, pulsing lifeblood, the hot liquid gushing into his mouth, running down his throat, climaxing in an orgy of ecstasy and death and dark rebirth.”

John stops, out of breath, the light flickering like a candle, the air heavy as velvet. Their bodies are canted toward each other, their gazes locked, their cheeks flushed. Time seems to bend, place shifts, softening Sherlock’s usual rigid self-control. John’s erotic descriptions have stoked a strange heat that spreads through his core, fogging his brain.

“What if I were a vampire?” Sherlock murmurs, not sure if he’s teasing or flirting or still caught in the story.

“I wouldn’t be afraid,” John answers huskily.

Their heads drift closer, obeying a magnetic pull, almost touching, but hesitating.

“I don’t bite,” Sherlock whispers, inviting John to complete what he desperately wants but is too afraid to consummate.

Sherlock’s voice — a deep rumble rasping with an edge of vulnerability — vibrates in John’s chest, loosening his doubts and inhibitions, giving him the courage to tilt his head, close his eyes, and finally taste the coveted fruit of Sherlock’s tempting, plush lips.

The kiss is soft but not shy, an offering that John gives to Sherlock with the promise of more if he wants it.

He wants it. _Oh, God, yes,_ he really, really wants more. Sherlock presses into the kiss, seeking more of John’s mouth, his scent, his very _essence_ that he has been aching for.

John cups the side of Sherlock’s face to angle their mouths for a deeper kiss. The world narrows to this moment, to their warm breath, the gentle tug and release of Sherlock’s bottom lip, the way that Sherlock hooks his thumb under John’s jaw, pulling him back for more.

A hazy sense of wonder washes over John as his fingers slide into Sherlock’s curls. He daringly slips the tip of his tongue between Sherlock’s lips, delighting in the little jolt of surprise it causes. Sherlock soon responds in kind, cautious but curious, letting John guide him in this newest exploration.

_I can’t believe this,_ John thinks to himself, feeling almost drunk, _it’s really happening… we’re doing this… ah, God, it’s amazing…_

Sherlock feels the corners of John’s mouth curve into a grin and he pulls back, worried that he’s done something wrong. He scans John’s face for derision, but finds nothing but deep blue eyes and a crooked, sultry smile that makes his blood sing.

“Are you still annoyed that I texted you to come?” John teases.

Sherlock hesitates, a hundred unrelated replies flashing through his mind._ I like that thing you did with your tongue. I want to kiss every centimeter of your body. Touch me there, and there, and especially there._

He settles for growling, “Shut up and kiss me again.”

Jonn grins and covers Sherlock’s mouth with his own, twisting his torso for better leverage. They nuzzle and lick and caress, small sighs and moans drifting into the shadows. John shifts, then Sherlock slides his legs a few inches, their arms maneuver, until somehow they’ve rearranged themselves so they’re sat facing each other, legs bracketing each other’s hips.

It takes awhile for John to register that Sherlock’s large hands are now grasping his thighs, thumbs angled toward his crotch. The sight and pressure of those long fingers arouse him even more. He can’t stop himself from sucking Sherlock’s bottom lip and rocking his pelvis into Sherlock’s grip, wanting his huge palm to cup his hardness.

Sherlock innately understands and boldly slides his hand between John’s legs. Heat, stiff denim, even stiffer cock. He holds the bulge with momentary awe, his eyes widening further when John’s hand slips between his thighs in return.

“Feel me,” John whispers into Sherlock’s ear. “And I’ll feel you.”

Sherlock obeys, lightheaded at the sensations flooding his system, tongues flicking and probing as their fingers massage and explore each other through their clothing.

“Hnnng, John…” Sherlock slurs, his speech impaired by heightened bodily responses, “want to… unzip… need to…”

“Uh-huh,” John grunts in eager agreement. They scramble to their knees, fingers fumbling at buttons and zippers, kisses sloppy and hurried, _want want want_ —

_RAP RAP RAP_

“Sherlock? John? Are you in there?” Molly’s concerned voice pierces the door, shattering their bubble of frenzied groping.

They freeze, hands dipped halfway into each other’s pants, caught in a decidedly awkward situation.

“Hello?” Molly calls out, then raps on the door again.

John and Sherlock exchange an agonized glance, the mood deflated, then quickly disengage, zipping up and tucking in shirttails.

“We’re here!” John shouts back. “The door won’t open — the lock’s jammed.” He smooths down his disheveled hair, cursing their bad timing. _Dammit, they were so close._

“Hold on — there’s a trick to it.” There’s a series of rattles and thumps as Molly manipulates the handle.

John tries to meet Sherlock’s eyes again, but he’s faced away, brushing lint off his trousers.

The lock gives way with a rusty screech and the door swings open. “Oh gosh,” Molly blurts out. “I should have warned you about this door sticking. Sorry about that.”

“Not a problem.” John sends Sherlock a private glance. “We managed to entertain ourselves.”

“You didn’t have your phones, I guess.” Molly flips the light switch a few times, jogging the bulb back to full power. “There they are,” she smiles upon seeing the skeletons, then attempts a joke. “I bet you were worried that you’d end up like these two, stuck in here forever.”

“Yes, we’re quite relieved to be coming out of the closet, aren’t we, John?” Sherlock says so casually that John almost misses it.

“Uh, yeah,” John smiles as he wheels the shorter skeleton out of the storage room, following Molly as she pushes the taller one. Sherlock walks beside John, and they share another meaningful look.

“You’re both staying for a drink, aren’t you?” Molly asks as they wait for the elevator.

“Just one,” John answers. “We’ve got some unfinished business to attend to.”

“A new case?”

“It’s an old one, actually,” Sherlock says, looking at John. “The solution was there all along, but we just didn’t make the connection until tonight.”

“We still have a few things to strip down,” John adds suggestively.

“I’m sure some hard evidence will rise up as we work.”

John stifles a giggle. “It could take hours to examine every little detail.”

“Oh, it will take all night,” Sherlock assures him.

The innuendo makes John’s skin tingle in anticipation.

Molly smiles at them. “That’s nice.”

The elevator dings and rattles open. They enter, flesh and bones, the living and the dead, all facing the closing doors. John can’t resist giving Sherlock’s bum a subtle squeeze to make him jump.

“Happy Halloween.”


End file.
